


Gifts of the Champion

by librariansheart



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Blood, Death, Druids (Voltron), Gen, Gladiatorial combat, Implied/Referenced Torture, Major Character Injury, mentions of Haggar, prosthetic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-09
Updated: 2017-06-09
Packaged: 2018-11-11 12:23:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,577
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11148348
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/librariansheart/pseuds/librariansheart
Summary: Shiro has become the Champion of the Arena, and in the process has begun to lose sight of himself.





	Gifts of the Champion

     They never tell you how it feels to watch someone die. They never tell you how it feels to feel them clutch numbly at your blade and slowly slide from it to the floor. They never tell you what it’s like to kill.  
  
     _I hope you find peace._ It’s the only thing he can think of to say at a time like this. He used to think it after every kill, after every fight. But the longer he fights, and the more experienced gladiators they send against him, the more he forgets to think the words, encased in his icy fury, looking ahead to the next fight. He’s losing himself, and he knows it.  
  
     The next fighter is older, smarter. He makes use of his larger size and weight without losing any of his agility, and isn’t worried about drawing the fight out or making it entertaining for the spectators. He’s here to kill.  
  
     This guy’s won enough fights to have been granted some rewards – rubber soled boots, claw blades, a backup dagger. It makes Shiro wary. But even as it does, he can feel himself grinning. This is going to be a real test of his abilities. He doesn’t need to feel bad about killing this guy. He’s a Galra. A shaved Galra, but a Galra nonetheless. And he’s killed many slaves before.  
  
     Their clashes are quick, testing. Feeling out each other’s strengths and weaknesses, learning to read each other’s moves. Even the crowd senses the difference this time, the cheers and shouting dying down to a low murmuring rumble in the distance, like thunder. Thunder. Heh. He doesn’t even really remember what that sounds like anymore. Doesn’t matter.  
  
     The enemy is fresh. He is worn from his last fight. He is faster, by a narrow margin, but the enemy is bulkier and stronger. And of course the weapon disparity. He knows the terrain better, and he’ll have to make good use of it.  
  
     It’s a long fight, long and brutal, and by the time Shiro puts his foot on the Galra’s chest and jerks his blade free he’s sporting more than a dozen wounds. But he’s alive. The crowd roars and screams. He ignores them. His back burns from the claw slashes across his shoulder blade, but it’s nothing compared to the bite on his right forearm. He stands there till the guards come to get him and escort him back to his cage.  
  
     Pain lances through his thigh with every step but like hell he’s going to limp in front of these monsters. They take his blade from him as they close on the slave tunnel and a sentry singles out the next slave to get their chance for glory. No doubt they feel like it will make them fight harder to have the blade of the Champion in their hand. Shiro’s expression does not change.  
  
     The slave takes the sword in one of four trembling hands, and he can see the moment the alien makes its mistake. The instant their mind settles on a course of action. With a scream, the slave turns on his captors, beheading the sentry and charging for the tunnel, making a bid for freedom. He makes it three strides before rifle fire splashes over his chest and back and he thuds to the ground.  
  
     Shiro knew it wouldn’t work. He’s been watching these creatures since they first threw him in here. He’ll wait. He doesn’t have time to die. Too much to do. He looks straight ahead and follows his escort to his own private cell. The luxury of the Champion.  
  
     Only when the door locks does he relax his tight stance. With an oath, he slams his fist into the metal wall. Then he hangs his head and closes his eyes with a soft sigh. Stooping slowly to pick up a small stone, he goes to the wall and scratches more tallies into it. He’s missing some. He wasn’t always the Champion. And only when he realized he was losing sight of the important things did he start trying this. The lives he’s taken. He doesn’t know their names. Doesn’t know where they came from. What they did to wind up in the arena. But in the arena there can be no draws. No mercy, unless it is the mercy of a swift death.  
  
     Blood drips from the end of his nose. He’d been lucky this time. If he hadn’t tipped his head up on instinct he would have lost his eyes. Dabbing gingerly at the cut shows a long slice across the bridge of his nose. All his little cuts and slices, bruises and scrapes are starting to ache now that the adrenaline is wearing off. He can’t pace the way he usually does. He can’t sit back against the wall. They’ll be coming in soon to take him to the druids anyway. They always do sooner or later.  
  
     He’s dizzy and exhausted by the time they arrive, short of breath. Blood loss, his distant mind informs him dispassionately. Still, they haul him up and make him walk – he can’t help but limp now – down the long corridors. Right, left, left, right, into an elevator, left, right, right, left… He can’t keep track. He takes an obscure pleasure in knowing that the cleaning bots will have to follow his trail.  
  
     This room is different. This isn’t just the usual observation room… it looks more like an interrogation chamber. He tenses, forcing his brain back into high gear and dropping into a wide stance, crouched despite the manacles keeping his wrists in front of him. “What is this? What’s going on?” He demands.  
  
     The druids, as usual, turn their damned beaky masks to him and then ignore him. “Get him on the table.”  
  
     “No!” He jerks away from the guard with a snarl. “Don’t touch me. That’s not a table, that’s a slab. What the hell do you want from me?”  
  
     The guards seem a little wary, but they’re more afraid of the druids than of him. They don’t go for their guns, though. Looks like the druids want him alive. Not that they’re saying anything. One of the guards shuts and locks the door – damn - but he doesn’t have time to think about it. The other one charges. Teeth bared in his bloody mask, Shiro dodges sideways against the wall and brings his manacles down hard on the back of the guard’s neck and lifts his knee at the same time, cracking the Galra’s teeth together and knocking him silly. Pain sears across his thigh. The scabbing has opened.  
  
     He kicks out, slamming the stunned guard’s head against the plinth of the table with a ringing clang. The Galra drops to the floor, unmoving. The other one is on him already, bringing a shock stick down on his up-flung forearm – right over the bite wound. Screams rip their way from Shiro’s lungs and he falls to his knees. He sways, the room doubling and blurring around him. He can’t get a full breath. Grey fog swallows the room whole and turns black.

  


      He’s lying down, that’s nice. On his back… must’ve been a good dream. Can’t remember. Why’s it so bright? Did they change his cell? His lashes feel cemented together. He automatically raises his hand to wipe the grit away. Or tries.  
  
     Adrenaline surges through him and he lurches fully awake, yanking futilely on the restraints. Ankles, waist, wrist, he’s held fast.  
  
     “Finally.” A druid. He’s in that weird room with all the instruments, a masked face gazing down at him impassively. “Young and strong, and yet you take forever to recover.” Clearly a great inconvenience.  
  
     Shiro bares his teeth in a silent snarl. He can almost feel the druid roll his eyes. “You will notice that your wounds are healed.” Shiro blinks and carefully assesses. Yes…. He doesn’t hurt anymore. Actually, he can’t feel his right arm at all. Did they numb it?  
  
     He looks, and he freezes. Stars and nebulas. “What did you do?”  
  
     “We gave you a gift,” the druid says, disdain practically running down his robes. “Weapon and armor in one. Haggar herself attended you. Be grateful, Champion.”  
  
     “Grateful?” Shiro’s voice rises two octaves and his eyes snap to the druid. Suddenly he’s shouting, back in his normal range, straining at the manacles fit to dislocate his shoulders. “ _Grateful?!_ You thought I would be grateful for this, you toothless parasite? Gr—ghk!”  
  
     His head slams back against the table, the druid’s claw at his throat. “Yes, slave, you should be grateful. You were weak. We made you stronger. I would have let you die for your insolence. You don’t deserve this. Haggar’s kindness is the only reason you’re still alive.” Suddenly he’s gone, reappearing at the door in a puff of black smoke. “Remember that.”  
     Four guards enter as he sweeps from the room, one of them bearing a familiar syringe of pink liquid. Damn it. He’s made it harder for himself. He struggles, pointless, but necessary, as they approach and jab him with the sedative. He wonders if they even hear him alternately begging and cursing them till he goes under.

  


     The next time the Champion steps into the ring it is to resounding screams. He fights with an icy and vicious indifference, graced with a new weapon. They have missed him. Their bloodletter. Their animal. Their celebrity. He raises his fist in salute for the first time. Their killer.


End file.
